


Bust a gut, Tones

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: Up Came the Sun [8]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Appendicitis, Gen, Happy and Rhodes are saints too, Iron dad and Spider son, Maybe? does this count as whump?, Not too much, Pepper is a saint, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Precious Peter Parker, Some of the other Avengers make an appearance, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, Tony needs to learn Peter knows when something is wrong, Vomiting, Whump, but they were off their game in this one, just like Tony knows, tony is HIIIGGHHHHH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 15:36:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16663537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: “I’m fine, Peter,” he says, probably more harshly than he intends to, because he immediately sighs and his hands loosen on the steering wheel.  “Really, I’m ok.  Would I lie to you?”“Yes,” Peter deadpans.  Because he would about something like this.“You got me there,” Mr. Stark reaches out and punches his knee playfully.  “But really, don’t worry about it.”“Promise you’ll tell me if there is?” Peter can’t help but think back to a few weeks ago, when he’d thrown a tantrum and Mr. Stark ran after him, and almost got shot by a piece-of-shit mugger.  When he’d refused to lie and say he’d never die.“Of course, kiddo,” Mr. Stark throws a small smile at him.  The Compound is probably less than a quarter-mile away.  “My stomach is just feeling a little off.  Probably nerves.”





	Bust a gut, Tones

**Author's Note:**

> Petey's POV. 
> 
> I'm in a mood (that time of year, yay!) and just sat down and pounded it out, so sorry for its shittiness. I felt the pull to get something posted, and all I've honestly been working on for the past month is Big Bang shit. Medical stuff is just based on what I know as an Infection Preventionist, and follows literally the best-case-scenario of what can happen with this on the most base level of understanding because I didn't feel like busting out my old clinical atlases.
> 
> If you don't mind a blog that consists of shitposting, misunderstanding the memes all the kids talk about today, Johnlock conspiracies, and occasional MCU screaming follow me on the tumblr dot com [whimsicalethnographies](http://whimsicalethnographies.tumblr.com/)

“Since when do the rules say you can call ‘shotgun’ in a text thread?” Happy grumbles as he slides into the backseat of the Audi. It’s not Mr. Stark’s most flashy car, but it’s one of the roomier ones, and independently heated seats is flashy enough for Peter, thank you very much. Sometimes the heat doesn’t work at all in May’s old Volvo.

“Since children don’t actually speak out loud anymore,” Mr. Stark turns to smirk at Happy, just as Mr. Rhodes climbs in the other side. Peter hastily pulls out his phone.

“Well, if we’re going to live in a state of anarchy, I call it now for the ride home,” Mr. Rhodes says, buckling his seatbelt, just as three phones simultaneously vibrate.

“Too late,” Mr. Stark throws up a hologram of his phone screen, to show everyone the text Peter had the foresight to send off a few seconds earlier. _Shotgun on the ride back_. “Kid’s always one step ahead.”

“Oh Jesus Christ.”

“Come on!”

“Hey, hey, no complaining. Not this weekend. Got your seatbelt on, kiddo?”

“Yep,” Peter tugs on his seatbelt as Mr. Stark nods and throws the car into gear. 

“Why are we driving?” Happy leans forward, and very obviously does not have _his_ seatbelt on. 

“You drive me up there all the time,” Peter points out, fiddling with the heating on his seat as Mr. Stark pulls out of the underground garage and onto Park Avenue.

“Yeah, but he’s not with us then. Why are we driving, Tony?”

“Because it’s fun, goddammit--oh, fuck you, buddy!” Mr. Stark lays on his horn as an old Toyota cuts him off as he tries to change lanes.

“Fun!” Peter laughs and turns around to smile at the men in the backseat. Mr. Rhodes rolls his eyes and Happy just continues frowning, flopping back into his seat. “I could drive.”

A resounding “NO” fills the car, from all three men.

Mr. Stark’s wedding is in a week, and in a fit of something, he decided he wanted to drive everyone up for one last “boy’s weekend.” May was able to beg Peter out of school for both Thursday and Friday, under the ruse of Official Stark Internship business, which somehow Peter is getting class credit for (he doesn’t know how Mr. Stark swung that one). She and Pepper are doing something this weekend, and somehow convinced Natasha to join them. So it’s going to be a “boys weekend,” which even Mr. Stark told him was ridiculous but would be a nice way to let off steam.

“I’m a good driver, thank you very much.”

“You are, under general conditions,” Mr. Stark lays on his horn again. “But we all have someplace very important to be next Friday, so let me handle this one.”

“He’s not much better, Peter,” Mr. Rhodes leans forward to whisper, and is rewarded with a glare in the rearview mirror. 

“You can find your own way back on Sunday, Colonel Rhodes.”

“And I’m going to take my time. I figure I’ll pull into New York at 5:59 on Friday.”

The wedding is going to be both a small, intimate, and somehow huge affair, next Friday evening. Peter had asked May why they were getting married on a Friday instead of a Saturday like normal people, and then had to sit through a thirty-minute explanation about how regular people got married on Fridays to save money at the venue, but rich people got married on Fridays because it was “formal.” The whole thing shattered Peter’s understanding of what “formal” meant and also explained why his suit was a legitimate tuxedo and why Mr. Stark begged May to let him take care of it.

“Sounds good. Pete, you’re getting promoted. I’m pulling you off the bench.”

“Really?!”

“No, wait!” Happy leans forward again. “Why does he get promoted before me?”

“Because he’ll be there when his aunt is there, and his aunt will be there on time.”

“Good luck, kid,” Mr. Rhodes kicks the back of the seat, his leg braces humming too low for anyone but Peter to hear.

“No, no no, Tony, why does a kid get promoted before I get promoted? I--”

“Anybody want some food before we leave the city?” Mr. Stark interrupts, nodding to the bright lights of a Wendy’s ahead, probably the last easily accessible restaurant before they get on the Thruway.

“Yeah, I could eat.”

“Fine.”

“Ooooh, yeah, can I have a Frosty?”

“Ah, consensus!” Mr. Stark flicks on his signal. “Let’s keep this going and it’ll be a great weekend.”

***************

The longer they drive, the more Peter thinks this will not be a great weekend.

Something is up with Mr. Stark, and he’s pretty sure he’s the only one who has noticed it. His eyes had been slightly glassy when he’d first arrived at the Tower after school, maybe a little too bright, but Peter had passed it off as the sun setting and his own eyes playing tricks on him. 

Then his face had literally turned green when the girl at the window handed them their bags of food and the smell of it had filled the car. The moment passed soon enough, but it was a long enough moment that he didn’t bark his usual order for Peter to make sure not to get grease on the seat or he was going to reupholster his entire fleet by hand. He didn’t even accept any fries dipped in Frosty, providing which was, according to him, the sacred duty of the person riding shotgun. 

Right now, they’re outside a rest-stop right before NY-17--Happy got a large Coke--and Mr. Stark is leaning awkwardly against the side of the car, favoring his right side. It was his left side that was injured when the team was in Sanctuary, and his left knee that that stupid mugger had kicked in a few weeks earlier (which Dr. Cho had told him he’d need surgery on sooner rather than later). The fact that he’s using that side for support is...weird, to say the least. 

“You want the last of my Frosty, Mr. Stark?”

Peter swears he sees the tinge of green again as he shakes his head. “All yours, kid.”

“You didn’t eat anything?”

“I’m good,” he looks up from his phone. “You don’t have to go? It’s still another forty-five minutes.”

“Nope.”

“You’ll have to hold it if you do, we’re not stopping again,” he turns--slowly, to Peter’s eyes--as Happy walks up to the car. “You good?”

“Sorry,” Happy shrugs. “I can’t even sleep through the night anymore.”

“Hey, hey, let’s not scare the kid...he’ll be our age soon enough,” Mr. Stark turns to open his car door and is barely able to suppress his wince. “Finish and get rid of that, Pete. Onward we go.”

Peter loudly slurps down the rest of his Frosty and sprints over to the trash can in the corner of the parking lot. When he turns around, he sees Mr. Stark briefly press his hand to his right side, but he continues to stand by the car, glancing around the parking lot as he jogs back to the Audi. 

“You alright, Mr. Stark?”

“Peachy, kiddo,” he schools his face into a bright, arrogant smile, the same smile he gives to government officials and the press. It’s not the usual, easygoing smile Peter usually gets. 

“Ok--”

“Hop to it, kiddo,” Mr. Stark interrupts him before he can ask again, gesturing to the car. Peter gets in, then watches as he slowly lowers himself through the door and into the seat. He flinches again as he pulls his left leg into the car. Peter glances over his shoulder, and neither Happy nor Mr. Rhodes are paying attention; both men have their faces buried in their phones. It causes a flare of irritation in his chest, and he wonders if this is how May feels when he sits and stares at his phone for hours.

“You guys good?” Mr. Stark calls, and Peter narrows his eyes as he watches him start to turn to look in the backseat, then stops halfway through the movement. 

“Uhhg..”

“Mmmm.”

Both men mumble from behind them, eyes still glued to their screens. Peter keeps his eyes glued to Mr. Stark as they pull back on the highway, heading towards the short off-ramp that will lead them to the Middle-of-Nowhere, NY. A tell-tale itch has started at the back of his neck.

Peter watches for the rest of the ride, zeroing on the subtle things that just feel _off._ Mr. Stark’s eyes are glassy again, and every few minutes he blinks rapidly and sniffs hard, squirming in the seat and biting his lip. Every time he shifts his leg on the gas or reaches forward to fiddle with a control on the dash the line of his mouth tightens. A bead of sweat appears at the very top of his hairline when they’re about thirty minutes out, and by the time the lights of the compound appear on the horizon, his entire forehead is shiny with it.

“Do I have something on my face, Pete?”

“Huh?!” Peter starts when Mr. Stark barks at him, jumping slightly in his seat and rapidly turning to look out at the road ahead. The lights are getting closer and closer.

“You’ve been staring at me since we left the rest stop.” Behind them, Happy lets out a snore. “Jesus christ, they’re like toddlers,” Mr. Stark looks up into the rearview mirror. Both Happy and Mr. Rhodes are sleep. “Why are you staring at me like I’m caught in your web?” The pun doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“You just,” Peter shakes his head minutely. “You look a little off. And you didn’t take any Frosty. Are you sure you’re ok?”

“I’m fine, bud,” Mr. Stark turns back to the road and tightens his grip on the steering wheel. “Relax.”

“Mr. Stark…”

“I’m fine, Peter,” he says, probably more harshly than he intends to, because he immediately sighs and his hands loosen on the steering wheel. “Really, I’m ok. Would I lie to you?”

“Yes,” Peter deadpans. Because he would about something like this.

“You got me there,” Mr. Stark reaches out and punches his knee playfully. “But really, don’t worry about it.”

“Promise you’ll tell me if there is?” Peter can’t help but think back to a few weeks ago, when he’d thrown a tantrum and Mr. Stark ran after him, and almost got shot by a piece-of-shit mugger. When he’d refused to lie and say he’d never die.

“Of course, kiddo,” Mr. Stark throws a small smile at him. The Compound is probably less than a quarter-mile away. “My stomach is just feeling a little off. Probably nerves.”

“For the wedding?”

“Amongst other things. Don’t worry about it, Pete. I promise I’ll tell you if something is wrong.”

“Ok,” Peter turns back to the windshield, not _quite_ believing him. “If you promise.”

“I do. Now! Put your Happy Face on. I don’t want the third degree from Steve and Company when we get there. They’ll be bad enough as is.”

*****

The tingling at the bottom of Peter’s neck doesn’t go away. In fact, it gets worse, making him jumpy and nervous and short with everyone at the Compound. Mr. Lang seems to notice and eases up on his usually friendly ribbing, which only makes Peter feel worse. His Happy Face doesn’t seem to be working. He thinks he sees Mr. Rogers ask Mr. Stark if everything is alright, but aside from that, nobody else thinks anything is amiss. Even Mr. Rhodes and Happy seem oblivious.

The only way he feels even remotely better is to follow Mr. Stark around, so his does, in and out of the kitchen and down the hall and back again. He can barely keep himself from following Mr. Stark to the bathroom, especially after it obviously takes some effort for him to haul himself off the couch--the couch farthest from the pizzas that have been spread around the enormous open common room. As soon as he returns, Peter immediately re-glues himself to his side. His hand looks like it’s trembling slightly, and the air around him feels off, almost warm. He’s sitting more heavily on his left side than his right, holding the pressure off it.

“Parker, you having trouble unsticking yourself from Stark?” Mr. Wilson suddenly calls from across the room. His tone is teasing, but it still makes Peter jump in his seat.

“I--”

“Slow your roll, Robin,” Mr. Stark barks, laying a hand on Peter’s back. It’s warm through his shirt, warmer than it should be. Peter watches as he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, whether to calm himself or something else, he’s not sure. “He’s had a rough...week.”

“Sorry, man,” Mr. Wilson raises his hands in surrender. “You know I like teasing the kid.” He sits down across the large coffee table with a piece of pizza in his hand. Peter is sitting close enough that he can feel Mr. Stark stiffen and swallow hard. “He’s just been so quiet. I’m not used to silence when he’s around.”

“Awww, let him be a teenager,” Mr. Lang plops down next to him with a beer and a bowl full of chips. “Be a teenager, Pete,” he winks at him. “GIve me some preparation for when Cassie gets there.”

“Is Cassie coming this weekend?” Peter asks, grateful for the opportunity to change the subject. He likes Cassie, she’s weird and funny and fascinated by him. Mr. Stark’s hand remains on his back, rubbing small circles. The tingling in the back of Peter’s neck crawls up into the base of his skull. He’s pretty sure Mr. Stark isn’t doing it to comfort _him,_ especially when he shifts uncomfortably on the couch and takes another deeps breath.

“Nah, she’s with her mom,” Mr. Lang takes a swig of his beer. “We’ll be up in the city next month though.”

“Awesome,” Peter smiles. Mr. Stark’s hand stop moving on his back, and he feels him swallow heavily.

“You know, these assholes need to hurry up, or I’m starting this movie without them,” Mr. Wilson swallows the last of his pizza and reaches for the beer on the coffee table, just as Mr. Rhodes and Happy wander over to the table set up near the door to the kitchen and start filling their plates.

“We’re coming, my liege,” Mr. Rhodes walks in, his braces humming and clicking, and picks a large, overstuffed chair to sit in. “Don’t know where Steve and Barnes are. Or Bruce.”

“Shame,” Mr. Stark suddenly barks, his hand pressing hard into the space between Peter’s shoulder blades. “Pete,” he gulps and swallows some air. “Come help me dig through the freezer for that gross ice cream you like. Wilson, start the goddamn movie.”

“Alright,” Mr. Wilson shrugs and clicks the remote at the large wall screen as Mr. Stark literally heaves himself off the couch, pulling Peter with him by the back of his shirt. Happy looks at them curiously as they stumble by and into the closed kitchen, then turns back to the tv as the opening music of The Omen--they opted for the irony of horror movies--blasts through the common room. 

As soon as they make it through the swinging door of the large kitchen, Mr. Stark lets go of Peter’s shirt and darts to the sink, barely making it in time to throw up into the stainless steel.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter rushes over, grabbing his wrist as he doubles over and retches into the bowl. His skin is burning hot.

“Don’t be--” another retch, and Peter’s stomach turns. He hates vomit. “--mad.” Mr. Stark apparently decides he’s finished, because he slumps to the floor, pressing his hand into his right side and pulling Peter down with him.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter holds him up to keep him from slumping over completely on the marble. “FRIDAY?”

“Yes, Mr. Parker?”

“What’s wrong with Mr. Stark?”

“Boss has a fever of 102.8, and it has been climbing steadily since 5:14pm. It appears he has some inflammation in his lower right quadrant. The most common diagnosis for his symptoms would be acute appendicitis.”

“What?” Tears immediately fill Peter’s eyes. He _knew_ something was wrong. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I am not programmed to give automated health analyses unless prompted by approved individuals.”

“Jesus Christ, FRIDAY!”

“Relax, kid,” Mr. Stark grabs his hand and tries to push himself semi-upright. “I--oh, shit,” he gags. “Bowl--not done, not done--”

Peter blindly reaches up to the counter and grabs the bowl he saw there when the first came in, filled with pretzels. He barely gets it in front of Mr. Stark before he’s folding in half again, gagging and retching. It’s mostly bile, but it’s so forceful it spatters out of the bowl onto the floor, and onto Peter. He fights his own gag.

“Happy! Mr. Rhodes!” Peter calls as Mr. Stark continues to gag, trying to pull in a full breath. He’s bent over his back, the heat radiating through his clothes making Peter start to sweat. Or maybe it’s panic.

“What, kid, did--oh, Jesus,” Happy skids to a stop, Mr. Rhodes hot on his heels. The door is swinging behind them. “What happened?”

“He started throwing up, I knew something was up and he wasn’t feeling good, but he said he was fine but I didn’t believe him, and FRIDAY says he has a fever and--” Peter babbles, the tears flowing freely now.

“Ok, kid,” Mr. Rhodes kneels beside him, and wipes his face with a napkin. “Take a deep breath. FRIDAY, what’s wrong with him?”

“Boss’ symptoms of fever, vomiting, and pain, combined with increased metabolic uptake and heat in his right abdomen point to a diagnosis of appendicitis. Mr. Parker appears to be in the start of a panic attack. Shall I alert Dr. Cho?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Mr. Rhodes sighs as Mr. Stark pushes the bowl of ruined pretzels away and collapses on his side, groaning. Peter follows him, covering his body protectively and looking back and forth at Happy and Mr. Rhodes. “Yeah, call Helen. Hap, get over here.”

Happy snaps out of his stupor and steps over to them. “Alright, kid, scooch over so we can get him up--”

“Don’t,” Mr. Stark coughs, pushing away Happy’s hand. “I can do it,” he tries to push himself to his knees, but doesn’t do a very good job of it, and both Peter and Mr. Rhodes have to grab his arms to steady him. He looks up at Peter, eyes wet and red. “Stop crying, kid. I kind of told you, didn’t I?”

“Mr. Stark!” Peter blinks incredulously as they haul him to his feet., Happy standing in front of them with his arms out. Mr. Stark gags once again as they get him upright, but there isn’t anything left in his stomach so it’s just a wet cough. “I knew something was wrong, I knew it and--”

“Hey,” he grunts, leaning his head over onto Peter’s. The heat radiating from him is stifling. “Deep breath. Cho’s gonna get it out and everything is gonna be fine.” He grunts and stifles another gag. His voice is wavering in a way Peter has never heard it before.

“Hap, go tell them the party is over,” Mr. Rhodes directs Happy, jerking his head towards the door. “We’re gonna get him down to MedBay. Call Pepper and meet us down there.”

“Don’t drop him,” Happy looks pointedly at Peter as he heads out of the kitchen, but he knows he doesn’t mean it, that it’s his way of expressing worry for Mr. Stark, and him. 

“Don’t doubt my kid, Hogan,” Mr. Stark slurs, stumbling a bit as they lead him down the open hallway on the opposite side of the kitchen, towards the elevators. Peter tucks his face into Mr. Stark’s burning neck and does his best to hold him steady as they walk.

*****

 

Dr. Cho arrives forty minutes after they call her, having only been halfway to the city, and she immediately agrees with FRIDAY’s assessment and whisks Mr. Stark into an operating theater, followed by the nursing team and anesthesiologists that live on site.

Happy comes down as soon as everyone is notified, and they sit tight on either side of him for the fifty-seven minutes Mr. Stark is in the operating room. It’s torture, and Peter hates every moment of it, of thinking that the great Iron Man could be defeated by a vestigial piece of tissue on his colon, but he’s immensely grateful that Happy and Mr. Rhodes are sitting with him, even if they’re probably just as worried. His aunt texted him after they called Pepper, just to tell him she’d be at the Tower until they got back and not to panic, and that she’d call later that night. It wasn’t much, but it was nice to see, reassuring. It seems like forever until Dr. Cho comes out with a smile, rubbing her hands with sanitizer.

“I wish all of my procedures were that simple,” she speaks as if addressing all three of them, but Peter knows her tone is directed mostly at him. “He’ll be fine, but it’s a good thing he threw up then and not when he was asleep. He’s up and we’re gonna watch him in recovery for about half-an-hour, then one of you can go sit with him until Miss Potts gets here. He can go upstairs in a few hours, no point in making him sleep in a strange bed.”

“That’s it?” Peter sniffs, looking up at the kind doctor. He feels Happy’s hand settle on his back.

“That’s it!” Dr. Cho shrugs with another smile. “He has some antibiotics, and a few days of pain medication, but with the scope the procedure is very non-invasion, and there was no rupture. We expect you all to watch him, but he should be up and moving--slowly--by tomorrow. He can probably even go back to the city as planned on Sunday. Recovery-wise, this will probably be the easiest one he’s ever had.”

So two and a half hours after Mr. Stark collapsed in the kitchen, Peter gets a gentle push through the door to the recovery room by Mr. Rhodes. He and Happy had both gone in already to say hello, and declare that they weren’t going to babysit him until Pepper arrived. 

“Hey, kiddo!” Mr. Stark throws his arms wide when he walks in and tries to sit up on the small bed, before collapsing with a grimace and a...laugh. “Guess that’s not happening, huh Pete?”

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter sniffs and shuffles over to the bed. Mr. Rhodes and Happy and Dr. Cho were right, of course they were. Mr. Stark looks a little drawn and sounds rough, the hospital gown is thin and ridiculous, and he is definitely very high, but he seems entirely ok. In fact, the buzzing in Peter’s skull downright stops as soon as he see him. “How do you feel?”

He looks Peter straight in the eyes, and schools his face into a deadly serious experience. “I am very, very high, Peter.” He sticks his index finger out, almost poking Peter in the stomach as he sinks into the chair beside the bed. “I don’t ever, ever want you to be this high, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Mr. Stark.”

Peter somehow feels like Mr. Stark is looking directly into his soul, like he did years earlier, when he’d admonished him for jumping in over his head and took his suit. Until suddenly his face collapses and he laughs hysterically, poking his finger forward and almost taking out one of Peter’s eyes. “Your face! So serious.”

“Mr. Stark!” Peter grabs his finger to pull it away from his very exposed eyeball. “Of course my face is serious! You just had surgery!” 

“Pshhhaw! Barely!” Mr. Stark pulls his hand out of Peter’s grip and waves it around in the air above his head. “They stuck three tubes in me and took out my appendix. Hardly the worst thing...Cho even said I could go upstairs in a few hours!”

“I know, Mr. Stark, but I was--”

“When are you going to stop calling me ‘Mr. Stark?’” 

“What?” Peter grabs his flailing arm and tries to push it back down to the bed, but Mr. Stark somehow manages to outmaneuver him, encasing his hand and tugging it to his chest.

“It makes me feel old,” he sighs dramatically at the ceiling. “And I’m not old.”

“Yes, you are, Mr. Stark.” Peter doesn’t bother trying to pull his hand back.

“And you’re a baby, Spider-baby.”

“No, I’m not. You threw up on me. That means you can’t call me a baby, anymore.”

“I threw up _next_ to you,” Mr. Stark gestures at nothing with both their hands. “And you cried. So you’re still a baby.”

“Some of it splashed on me, and of course I was crying,” Peter’s voice wavers a little, as he remembers Mr. Stark collapsing in the kitchen, trying to breathe through the pain and the gags. “You weren’t ok. I knew you weren’t ok and nobody else noticed and you were pretending it was ok, and then you were suddenly _very_ not ok.”

Mr. Stark tries to make a sober expression but is only able to produce an exaggerated pout. “Just an appendix, Petey. I can live without it.”

“It could have burst when you were asleep,” Peter sniffs, scrubbing at his eyes with his free hand. “Or you could have thrown up in your sleep and died. I told you you, you can’t die.”

“Somehow I doubt my clingy Spider-baby would have even let me go to sleep,” Mr. Stark smiles warmly. He tries to hold it as long as he can, but his face cracks and he laughs hysterically, throwing his head back against the pillow. “You were stuck to me since we got to the compound!”

“Mr. Stark…”

“Get it, Petey? ‘Stuck?’ Because you can stick to things?”

Peter can’t help but snort. The pun was ridiculous but Mr. Stark is absolutely _toasted_ , and he hopes to every god that FRIDAY is recording this. “I got it, Mr. Stark.” He tries to pull his hand back but Mr. Stark keeps it locked in his, cradled against his chest. “But it’s not funny when you explain it.”

“It is when I do it,” he nods solemnly, closing his eyes. “And you should be enjoying this. How often do you see me knocked off my gourd like this?”

“I saw you pretty drunk at Bruce’s birthday party.”

“Not the same!” Mr. Stark waves their hands again, but this time loses his grip and Peter’s hand slips out. He looks panicked for a second, and moving more quickly than anyone who just had a surgical procedure and now has more opioids than blood in his veins, quickly snatches Peter’s hand back. “Whoa, whoa, how come you’re not sticking? Are you broken? Who broke you?”

Peter can’t help but roll his eyes as Mr. Stark tries to push himself off the bed again, and _again_ collapses with a grunt and a wince. “Here, Mr. Stark,” Peter lets himself stick--or does he make himself stick? They haven’t quite figured out which it is yet--and is rewarded with another hysterical laugh.

“Fuck, it’s so weird!” He raises their hands and lets go, laughing again when Peter just sticks. “You’re so weird,” his laugh devolves into strangely high-pitched giggles. “You’re a weird kid. S’ok though, ‘cause you’re my kid. I don’t mind having a weird kid.”

“Erm, thanks?”

“Like, I could have Clint’s kids. They’re boring. Regular, boring kids.”

“What if your kids with Pepper are boring?” Peter tries to push Mr. Stark’s hand back to the mattress--again--and it seems to work this time.

“Nah, not possible,” he squeezes Peter’s fingers and settles his head back on the pillow. “Not with me as a father and you as a brother. Kid’s destined to be downright odd.”

Peter’s cheeks flush and he feels decidedly uncomfortable; he’s long been aware that Mr. Stark has decided Peter is as good as his son, Pepper too, but he also knows he’s only voicing it so freely because of the drugs coursing through his system. If he remembers this in two hours, he’ll be embarrassed on top of being in pain.

“Why don’t you try to go to sleep, Mr. Stark?” Peter manages to twist his fingers out of his grip, and makes a show of smoothing the thin blanket over the corner the edge of the bed. “Pepper will be here soon, they’re coming back early. She just had to drop May at the Tower first.” 

Mr. Stark’s face twists in panic at the mention of Pepper’s name. “Oh, shit, oh fuck.” He looks at Peter with panicked, wide eyes. “She’s going to kill me. The wedding is in a week.”

“No, she’s not--”

“Yes, she is. Oh, I’m going to kill me, this cannot wait any longer, and my fucking appendix--”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter, against his better instincts, grabs his hand again. He knows he won’t get out until he falls asleep and for a brief second wonders if this is how Mr. Stark and May and Pepper and any of the other adults in his life feel when he panics over things that surely will not happen.

“She’s not, Mr. Stark. She’d kill you if you didn’t have the surgery and you died. I promise.”

“You promise?” Peter has to physically stifle a laugh as Mr. Stark looks at him pleadingly, hazy eyes begging for reassurance. 

“Yep,” Peter bites his lip to keep a giggle in and reaches for some cracker packets on the small table next to the bed. “Do you want some crackers? Dr. Cho said they may help with your stomach.”

“Can’t feel my stomach, Petey.” With that, the panic is gone, and he settles back into his pillow. He closes his eyes, then seems to think better of it, and opens them violently, blinking rapidly.

“Why don’t you try to sleep, Mr. Stark?” Peter holds the cracker packets in his lap, just in case.

“Christ, is this what I sound like when I try and get you to sleep? A goddamn broken record?”

“Yep,” Peter smiles. “Annoying, isn’t it?”

“Pepper won’t make me sleep.”

“Lies. She’ll probably tie you to your bed.”

“Ha! That’s the truth. But I want to stay awake, ride out these meds. I haven’t been this high since--” he quickly glances over at Peter, who knows he’s not doing a good job of keeping the amusement off his face. “--since never. I have never been this high.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Stark.”

“You don’t believe me. You don’t believe your old man. I can’t believe I’m being disrespected like this, in my own house.” Mr. Stark’s eyes slip closed again, and unlike the last times he did this, he doesn’t immediately open them again. Peter hopes maybe he’s finally tired himself out. God, parenting is exhausting, and it’s only been a half an hour.

“Go to sleep, Mr. Stark. When you wake up, Pepper will be here.”

“You sound ridiculous,” he snorts, but his eyes stay closed. Thank goodness.

“So do you, Mr. Stark,” Peter laughs. “And now I think I know why your blood pressure is high.”

“Then I expect you to remember this and cut me some slack, Mr. Parker.”

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll completely repress this in a few hours.”

“Don’t you dare,” Mr. Stark sighs and settles his head back into the pillow. “If I go to sleep, will you keep me company?”

“Sure, Mr. Stark,” Peter smiles, his eyes burning again, but differently, from before. “I can read to you, too, if you want,” he jokes.

“You could use this opportunity to tell me about all the stupid shit you’ve done. Door’s wide open, kid.”

“You’ll probably just forget it,” Peter shifts the chair, settling it sideways against the bed, so he’s looking at the door instead of Mr. Stark, who doesn’t let go of his hand. His hand apparently lives there now. 

“Probably,” he sighs. “So regale me, while you have the chance.”

“Ok, well,” Peter takes a deep breath. “Remember that time I said I felt like that time I had been hit by a train?”

“Yep.” Peter can barely hear him.

“Well, there was this dog, that ran up one of the ramps, and he was so little, the shelter said he wasn’t chipped, so he was probably living on the streets, but anyways, he ran up one of the ramps, and I knew that once he got up there there wouldn’t be any way for him to get down, so if a train came that’d kind of be it, and I knew one would be coming soon, so I went up there, but he was _so_ fast, Mr. Stark, and there aren’t exactly good buildings around the train tracks, so I--”

Peter is interrupted by a snore; he looks over and Mr. Stark is asleep, mouth open and still clinging to his hand.

“Thank goodness for that,” Peter sighs to himself and pulls his phone out of his back pocket, immensely grateful he no longer has to babysit a forty-eight-year-old man.

******

Peter slowly shuffles down the hall, focusing on not spilling a single drop of the broth on the tray. Mr. Stark always teases him about how as soon as he’s out of his suit he becomes a disaster, and Peter has seen the video proof of how Mr. Stark isn’t exactly exaggerating.

Pepper arrived not too long after Mr. Stark fell asleep, and he promptly threw up on her when he woke up, which Peter was grateful for. Twice in four hours would have been too much.

Dr. Cho made him eat something and scolded him for not eating the crackers Peter had offered before falling asleep, and two hours later they were slowly leading him to the master bedroom in his wing of the compound. Pepper had argued for a bit, but Dr. Cho assured her that in cases were the appendix didn’t rupture, most facilities were moving to outpatient procedures. Besides, she was just on another level if anything happened, and FRIDAY would send her updates throughout the weekend

Peter has a feeling that even if Dr. Cho hadn’t said it was ok, Mr. Stark would have found a way to escape the medbay, even if he couldn’t walk without being hunched over on himself. He was in his own bed by by five in the morning.

Peter shoulders open the heavy wooden door to see Mr. Stark propped on a pillow and passed out cold, Pepper sitting on the bed next to him, a soft-looking gray blanket over her legs, going through something on her StarkPad. His shoulders immediately slump in relief when Mr. Stark doesn’t wake up as he comes in.

“Oh, thank God he’s still asleep,” Peter walks over to the table in front of the dark fireplace and sets the tray down. It’s just six-thirty, and he wants to pass out himself. The rest of the compound has probably been asleep since they learned he was in recovery.

Pepper downright laughs as she sets her tablet aside. “Yeah, he’s a handful when he’s under the influence. One time, he peed in his suit at a birthday party.”

“Oh my god, that’s gross, Pepper.”

“Yes, it is,” she smiles, and reaches over to smooth a hand across his forehead. Mr. Stark only snorts, then settles back into silence. Her face turns serious, and a bit sad. “Your aunt says ‘hi’ and ‘behave,’ and said she would call later. And thank you for looking out for him, Peter. I think everyone else has gotten so used to his quirks that when he acts strangely, they don’t pay attention to it.”

Peter feels his cheeks flush. “Somebody’s got to, especially since he won’t.”

“He’s lucky to have you, sweetheart. _I’m_ lucky to have you. It’s nice to know there’s a functional adult”--she finger quotes the word--“hanging around him.”

“Can we show him the recording of you saying that when he wakes up?”

“No,” she laughs. “That’s our secret. But truly. He puts on a brave face, and acts like it’s pure stubbornness, but since The Cave, he’s scared of these things. So thanks for watching him and sitting with him.”

“He’s gonna be embarrassed when he wakes up.”

“Probably, but he’ll get over it,” Pepper leans over and adjusts the blanket on her legs, then turns to check on Mr. Stark again. He’s still dead to the world. 

“Will you have to postpone the wedding?” Peter isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to hang out in the room until he’s dismissed or just go on his own, so he opts to stay. He may be grateful Mr. Stark is asleep, but he’s not quite ready to leave him alone for the night just yet, even if his eyes are burning and begging him for sleep.

“Oh, no,” Pepper waves her hand and pats Mr. Stark’s lax hand. “All I need is for him to be able to make it up the aisle and swallow a mouthful of champagne, so we’ll be good to go. And even those aren’t absolutely required.”

“That’s good,” Peter pulls on his index finger, and it cracks loudly. “He was worried.”

“Of course he was. He’s more of a bridezilla than I could ever hope to be,” Pepper smiles warmly. “No, Helen will check him that morning and before we leave just in case, but he’ll be fine. He always has been.” She pulls her knees up and leans forward to nod at the table behind Peter. “What fine dining did you bring us?”

“Oh, just some broth and dry toast, like Dr. Cho said,” Peter gestures to the tray on the table. “And a sandwich for you.”

“Ham and cheese on toasted bread?”

“Yep, with lots of mayo and oil and the good kind of lettuce.”

“Oh, you’re an angel,” Pepper smiles brightly, scooting forward on the bed a little. “Well, he already woke up once and asked where you were--then immediately passed out again--but I don’t really feel like dealing with a hungover, aching Iron Man by myself. Why don’t you go grab some chips and we’ll split it, and we can stand guard to make sure those other heathens don’t bother him. We can watch a movie he hates. Have you ever seen The Fifth Element?”

“No?” Peter hasn’t seen it, but he’s heard Ned talk about it. It’s one of many movies on their long list. 

“He _hates_ it. Perfect time to nap through it,” Pepper nods towards the door. “Now go grab a giant bag of chips and a blanket and we can relax until His Majesty graces us with his presence again.”

“Sure thing, Pepper,” Peter smiles and heads towards the door. He doubts they’ll be letting off any steam this weekend, but it could have gone much worse. Much, much worse.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, appendicitis. The most non-serious of the medical emergencies.
> 
> To be fair to Tony, appendicitis is pretty rare for someone his age, so it's not out of the realm of possibility that he really didn't think anything was that bad, especially since the pain was on his right side. Sometimes--most of the times--it is just bad gas. But not for Tones! And when they use a scope, if you're healthy enough, you often get to go home same-day. If you don't *need* to be in a hospital, it's better for you not to be. He'll make it down the aisle fine, even if Cho may not approve sex for two weeks. :P


End file.
